


ShinRa's Guide to Survival feat. Sgt. Jones, Infantry Cajones

by Gothams_Only_Wolf



Series: ShinRa's Guide To Survival [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Cloud Strife, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Hojo is six feet under, M/M, POV Outsider, you can thank Mama Strife for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf
Summary: If ShinRa had one rule, it was never,everget between First Sgt. Strife and his coffee.Five times Sgt. Jones saw the Strife Coffee Syndrome Strike and the one time he didn't
Relationships: Cloud Strife & Original Character(s), Cloud Strife & Tseng, Zack Fair/Angeal Hewley/Genesis Rhapsodos/Sephiroth/Cloud Strife
Series: ShinRa's Guide To Survival [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1186061
Comments: 106
Kudos: 496





	1. Son of Shiva

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this just sort of spilled out of the Muses! I am working on Planetary Plague but this one jumped up and bit me in the ass XD
> 
> Enjoy~

* * *

Sgt. Jones considered himself a man of discerning tastes but Strife? 

Strife took it to a whole new level when it came to his coffee. 

The stuff must've been gods-grown, the way he went on about it, but damn if Strife didn't take advantage of the fact that if it was messed with he seemed untouchable.

* * *

**I.**

* * *

The first time Jones met Strife, he was witness to yet another Supply theft of the simple twine-wrapped brown boxes. 

The packages that came all the way from Nibelheim every two weeks like clockwork. Ones that were hoarded away by Supply because they were in charge of the mail. 

The only time Strife had ever been witnessed being, well, _violent_. 

"Where. Are. They." The statement—because it certainly was not a question—came out. Jones swore on Ifrit's balls that the temperature dropped as Strife said it. 

"Don't have any idea what you're talking about, Cadet Strife." The Supply Sgt. cut in smugly. 

"... I'm going to give you to the count of twenty, in Common, before I come over that counter and get them myself. My Ma calls and makes sure I get them. I've had to tell her for the last two months that they've come up missing. Don't disappoint her, hmm?" Strife said slowly, quietly but the way his body moved spoke otherwise. "One," 

The Supply Sgt. continued to play dumb but Jones was already backing out of the doorway. The metaphorical ice had begun gathering at Strife's feet, colder than Mideel and inherently more dangerous. 

"Cadet, are you threatening me? You really want to endanger your status in the Program." 

"No. Two," 

"Cadet Strife, that is grounds-" 

"Three," Strife limbered up, carefully stretching as Jones looked on. "Four," 

"Master Sgt. we have a Cadet threatening-" 

"Five," the implacable countdown continued, Strife cracking his neck one way and then the other, "Six," 

"Oh Gods, please stop," 

"Seven," 

"May Shiva curse you!" 

"Eight," Somehow, Strife's tone went from flat to vaguely amused. "You are the fourth Sargeant to threaten me with Shiva. I wonder if you're doing something wrong, Sgt., that she's not answering your prayers. Nine," 

"MASTER SGT. PLEASE," 

"Ten-" Cadet Strife paused, cocked his head to the side and the Supply Sgt. fainted dead away. "Hmm. Best go get it myself." 

He hopped up onto the desk and then slid down until his boots touched the other side. 

"Hey, uh, Strife? You need help with your Ma's boxes?" Jones offered, he thought, somewhat quietly. 

The smile went from screaming _**Death**_ to _soft_ ; Jones almost choked on his own spit. "Yes, thank you," the cornflower blue gaze flicked down to his name tape, "Pvt. Jones. Help would be nice."

* * *

Cadet Strife was known as the son of Shiva in the Infantry, his eyes and his wrath at being denied not helping the imagery.

* * *

The second time he saw Strife, they were both PFCs, both covered in debris and dead tired. 

"... Jones, wasn't it?" 

"I know you?"

"You helped me with my Ma's boxes, I think." 

"Didn't you get kicked out of the SOLDIER Program for-" 

"Yeeeup." Strife snorted, swiped at the piece of shit on his standard-issue helmet and shrugged. "They deserved it. Besides, I'm only banned until I either reach Sgt. in the Infantry, the order is rescinded by a General of SOLDIER or I'm field promoted to SOLDIER Third Class." 

The sheer confidence in which he said it made Jones whistle lowly. "Damn, you got some ambitions." 

"They fucked with my coffee." 

"So, since we're stuck on patrol, can I ask what's with the coffee?" 

Jones heard for the first time the infamous recitation many a man would hear before being pretzeled within an inch of their miserable lives. 

"This coffee comes directly from my Ma. She does all of it by hand and sends me a pack every two weeks." Strife hummed and then continued, "My rules are unless you're a Strife, through either marriage or blood, you're my significant other or the Silver General himself, you can't have any." 

"Huh," he said and then huffed out half-a-laugh. "Solid rules. Anybody break 'em yet?" 

"No but if they do, what I did to Supply will look like sunshine and daisies." Strife replied cheerfully but the _Death_ that lingered in his gaze spoke more. 

Jones comes out of the patrol with a healthy amount of respect for Strife and he hoped that Strife would continue to trust him in the future.

* * *

Pvt. Strife—once the bane of the Infantry— was now her best and brightest.

* * *

**II.**

* * *

Staff Sargeant Mueller, known at this point to to most of the Infantry as "Sgt. Push-Up-til-You-Puke-Up, PRIVATE", was picky about his coffee. He got the first cup of coffee out of the Infantry machine. 

Strife had set up his own, off to the right and away from the kitchenette on a shitty Supply table that the Infantry had repurposed. It had a broken leg and was supported by the most disgusting ShinRa MREs and a prayer to Alexander, if Jones was being _nice_ about it, really. 

Mueller aimed for the machine, the machine Cloud had set up and _taped his name to after the mix up last week_ and his hand had closed around the handle when—

All hell broke loose. 

Jones tucked himself into the corner of the room and a passing SOLDIER Second laughed himself sick at the fear that had crossed Staff Sgt. Mueller's face before he'd been bent and bowed into a human pretzel shape. 

He cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out how a person bent that way as he retrieved a safe cup of coffee from the other machine across the room. 

The other Sargeants looked at Mueller, looked at a content Cloud atop his most recent coffee conquest, and as one, shrugged. 

Mueller's expression morphed to horror as he realized the others wouldn't back him up. 

""He heard the rules."" 

""Strife was, er, clear at least? I think."" 

Master Sgt. Wolf snorted, drank from his mug shaped like a grenade and said, "About time someone put him in his place, albeit however unusually. I'd take Strife over Mueller in a fire-fight any day of the week. I'll back him if it comes down to punishment."

* * *

Somehow the incident left Strife promoted instead of kicked out, clearly on the amusement of Master Sgt. Wolf alone.

* * *

**III.**

* * *

Within the Infantry, it goes down as The Levikron Incident. 

To Jones? 

This is just confirming his theory that Strife has some kind of Summon on his side but not necessarily a good one.

* * *

He handed over his knife, heart in his throat as he pulled his back up personal knife and watched as Strife went to work. 

Teeth bared, knives slashing, eyes flashing with a berserker light, Strife was both a magnificent and terrible sight to behold. 

He dodged, parried, kicked, ducked and slid on the dirt of the Midgar Wastes, blood flying as much as the feathers did. 

What Strife was snarling as he did it almost made Jones laugh, "Fuck you," -Stab!- "fuck this," -Stab!- " _you're lucky I carry a spare baggie in case this ever happens_ , asshole Levikrons!" 

He continued, the clench of his jaw practically an afterthought as it got spattered by high-velocity blood , "The next thing to **fuck** with my coffee fix is going to get beat into the _**FUCKING GROUND**_ , I swear to Fenrir!" 

Whoever had taught Strife to fight before he'd set his heart on ShinRa's SOLDIER Program was to be feared and treated with the utmost respect. 

Frankly, Jones was a little scared to ask at this point, his standard-issue knife snapped in half from catching a Levikron spur that had been aimed for Strife's face motivation a plenty to avoid asking. 

The camp resumed in a slight daze as Strife wiped down his little coffee maker and resumed his routine as though he hadn't killed an entire flight. 

"Corporal Jones, you got a minute?" Sgt. Gosser prodded. 

"Sure Sarge," he replied, tucking away the broken knife in his inventory and strapping his personal knife to his calf instead. 

"... Is... Is Strife... always like this without coffee?" 

"Without coffee, Sarge, and angry that they kicked over his coffee thing. Thankfully it doesn't seem broken, Sgt., and he's making a new batch." Jones offered wryly. "The man's a Shiva-fiend for the stuff so I wouldn't be surprised if he took on a lot more stuff like this if it messed with his beverage of choice."

* * *

**IV.**

* * *

The white coated assistant looked around the Infantry break room, dismissed each of the coffee machines in turn until his eyes landed on the one they shouldn't have. The label with block letters was practically screaming that it was dangerous. 

Jones made an... attempt to save said assistant. He had to try. "Umm, not that one." 

"What Professor Hojo wants, Professor Hojo gets. He demanded the best coffee the Infantry has to offer and clearly, Corporal Strife's is the superior." 

"I really, really wouldn't if I were you. Strife is going to take it back and he won't be nice about it." Jones warned.

"Our coffee machine broke. The Turks refused to share theirs. Hence my turning to the Infantry... sludge." The assistant picked up everything and tucked it into a wheeled cart. 

He contemplated Strife's mug as well and took it, sniffing it as though Cloud never washed his mug and placed it with care beside his machine. 

"Alright.You can't say I didn't try to warn you," Jones snorted. "May any Summon be with you because you're going to need it." 

"There is nothing more powerful than Hojo in the labs. There are no gods there." 

Well, Strife might say otherwise.

* * *

The _Death_ that radiated off of Strife would've been terrifying if Jones hadn't grown somewhat immune to it strictly by being friends with him.

"Who. Took. My. Machine?" He questioned serenely, the slow and deadly smile that spread across his face still sending chills down Jones's spine. 

He, he thought wryly, rather helpfully piped up with, "The Science Department. Hojo sent a minion down to collect it."

"Thank you, Jones." The rictus smile faded just long enough for Cloud to give him a small, friendly one before it settled back into place. 

He could only hope that the Turks were willing to share the footage of what went down with him if he asked very, _very_ nicely.

* * *

Strife returned with his machine, took it apart, thoroughly wiped it down and put it back together, washing his mug as though it had never left the Infantry break room. 

The smell of Nibel coffee permeated the room and Strife sat at the very center, looking for all the world like the Cuhal that ate the Chocobo. 

His baton was clean. 

A little... too clean, come to think of it. 

Well, if Strife had murdered someone, it wasn't any of Jones's business. 

At least he knew where he laid on the scale of Strife.

* * *

**V.**

* * *

Turks. 

The lurking bane of Executives, Infantry and SOLDIERs. 

The fact that Strife had the balls to pretzel one of _those_ motherfuckers? 

Jones _**knew**_ there was a Summon laughing its ass off, to be supporting Strife like that at every turn.

The fight was silent, which made it somehow all the more intense, the flash of red and blond in the right corner making Jones shake his head.

He'd bet every Gil he'd ever made on Strife. Jones had seen too much of the man to think any less of him, even against a Turk. 

Sure enough, five minutes into the fight, Strife caught an arm, folded it behind the red-headed Turk and then proceeded to fold him into the human form of a pretzel. 

Jones thought it resembled a twisted yoga pose or a contortionist pose gone slightly wrong. He shrugged, bit into his breakfast sandwich and chuckled as the Turk talked. 

"I swear when I get out of this, I'm telling boss man and he's gonna get revenge for me, yo!" 

"Mm-hm," Strife limbered up and then sat criss-cross on his latest victim. "Sure. I'll believe it when it happens Reno. This the third time you've heard the rules."

* * *

The package was delivered without so much as a hello on the part of the Pvt. handing it over. 

That was the norm for Supply delivering packages to Strife these days, considering what had happened on a near weekly basis until they left the Nibel packages alone.

When Strife pulled his knife, the Private squeaked and fled. Probably had heard too many stories about Cloud and believed them all out of sheer self-defense. 

Poor Private. 

As if Summoned, a dark-haired Turk appeared at his elbow in the break room, peering into the opened box. "I assume the Nice Turk is myself."

"That's for you alright. Ma really appreciated you asking." Strife hummed and Jones wheezed out a breath. 

Another person on Strife coffee? 

_Oh Odin help them all._

"... May I take the box as well?"

"Sure. If you give me your office address, I can get her to send it there."

"Of course." The Turk tucked his coffee into his inventory, discreet and small though it was.

""Holy Shiva, did... did that Turk really touch Strife coffee and get away with it?"" He heard Juliet Troop hiss. 

""I don't know what he did but now he's offically more terrifying than all of the other Turks."" Whiskey Troop conferred. 

""Are they dating?"" The Corporal from Juliet muttered. 

""Nah, if they were dating, they wouldn't go that rough in the sparring hall."" Whiskey's Sgt. countered. 

"Just what we needed at ShinRa; someone _else_ attached to that coffee..." he sighed, staring at his own mug for reassurance.

* * *

**+I.**

* * *

The month Strife spent recovering from the Behemoth wound and a broken ankle, which had to be healed in stages to make sure it healed right, made Strife grumpy. ShinRa was thorough in healing the company's best, though the only reasoning behind it was for profit and pride. 

Strife had visitors—often and sensibly— checking in to see how he was doing. 

First was Commander Fair, _the_ up and coming SOLDIER Second. 

He'd been followed by _General Hewley_ , as Commander Fair's mentor, of course. The man was notorious for keeping an eye on Fair. 

Most surprising, however was General Rhapsodos. The man rarely showed concern but he'd chided Strife right back into his chair, making him take weight off the injured foot and propping it up on a poor Infantry Private's chair. 

To be fair, however, the Private seemed a little too awed to give a flying fuck about his chair, only that the General had touched it. 

After Rhapsodos, it seemed only inevitable that the great Silver General would follow suit.

* * *

Jones strolled in one morning, mug in hand and almost dropped it in the doorway. He paused and took in the unusual scene, he thought, with some measure of aplomb.

The visual of the General cradling Strife's wrapped foot with a concerned expression neary made Jones do an about face. 

The silver waterfall of hair was shoved impatiently over to one side, the green eyes narrowed as Cloud explained how his ankle was wrapped. 

"... May I fix it?" 

"I... suppose so, sir. I can't always reach very well, the scar hurts too much when I go forward." 

"Hn. You should stretch it while I wrap. Tilt left and right, bend forward and backwards. You most likely need another Cura but ShinRa won't go that far." Dexterous fingers rewrapped the ankle, bracing it carefully as he put Cloud's sock and boot back on with care. "Cura, Level V." 

Strife practically melted into the office chair, telling Jones that it had been hurting for a while. He'd have to keep an eye on Strife; the man was all about taking care of everyone, it seemed, but himself. 

"Thank you sir-" 

"Sephiroth." 

"Huh?" 

"I... wouldn't mind if you used it. My name. You seem the type to keep it safe." 

"Yes, S-ephiroth. Sorry, sir, it might take me a while." Strife stumbled but recovered, giving their ultimate commander a smile he reserved for very few people. 

"I appreciate the efforts, Strife." He did not see the Great Silver General blush. Nope. Nope. _Nope._

"Ah, it's Cloud... If you'd like." 

Jones backed out of the doorway, spun on the ball of his foot and made an internal bet with himself that sometime soon the General would be drinking his own mug of Nibel coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, complain, ect.


	2. That Damn Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it seems Jones was obliging juuuust enough! 
> 
> Enjoy~

* * *

Strife never did things by half. 

It wasn't in the man's nature to be anything other than direct unless it was rude to do so; manners maketh man, after all. 

Which was, of course, how Jones found out that not only had the General been drinking his daily cup of coffee but that he'd been doing so for _**months**_.

* * *

The betting pool was, frankly, getting a little ridiculous. 

Some poor fool of a Captain had slapped his entire paycheck into the bet of Kunsel and Strife dating and now the damn thing was well over 10, 000 gil. 

Jones got tired of the gossip, vicious and mostly dribble with a kernel of truth to it. He stepped into the other one which was much quieter and found—

Well, _that_ would explain **why** it was quieter. 

The Generals, Commander Fair, the terrifying Turk who had access to Strife coffee and Strife himself were all centered around the less shitty table, eating half-triangle sandwiches from what looked like the leftovers from the fridge that hadn't gone bad or were labeled. 

The Infantry took labeled items very seriously and even more so after Strife's machine had his name taped to it. 

"Hey, Jones, this is a free break room. Either come in or go to the one a door over."

Jones snorted at that, casually snatched a sandwich half off of the large plate and poured himself a cup of the _safe_ Infantry sludge that **pretended** it was coffee on a good day. "I've seen you do too much shit to be phased by our commanding officers and a _Turk_ sitting next to you. The rumor mill next door was getting a bit much for me."

"Does that mean you were there for the Levikron incident, Sgt. Jones?" General Hewley inquired politely, cocking his head to the side. 

"It does, sir, and a more terrifying soldier there never was in pursuit of justice for coffee spilled. Twenty-eight of those fuckers went into the camp and exactly _zero_ made it out." He pointed out, gesturing widely with his half-eaten sandwich for emphasis. "So anything Strife does or doesn't do will never top that or the Behemoth thing, sir."

"I'd heard you had taken on a Behemoth but did not put _stock_ into that particular rumor." The Turk rose a brow at Cloud and Cloud blew a raspberry back in his face. "What on this good green Planet _**suggested**_ that it was a good idea, Strife?" The unmigitated threat sitting in the man's tone didn't even make Strife flinch. 

Balls of mithril, Jones swore up, down and sideways. Balls. Of. Mithril. 

"The idea that it was going to kill my squad, I had the balls to take it on and I hadn't even gotten to make my coffee, let alone have a sip." Strife countered, taking a drink of his coffee into the brief silence.

"I can see why Jones is absolutely not phased by anything you do anymore, Cloud." General Rhapsodos chuckled, _stealing the mug from under Strife's nose to have a sip_. 

He couldn't help it; his jaw dropped even as his mind connected the dots that were punching him square in the face. Jones squawked in outrage, as his bet was a week off, anger making him howl, "Godsdammit, Strife, couldn't you have waited like, _a week longer_!?"

"How much was the pool?" Cloud's razor-smiled response had him whimpering. "A lot, huh?"

" _Well_ over 10,000 Gil, man." 

"I mean, no one else knows yet. Keep it to yourself and I'll think about letting you win it." came the succinct response. 

"... You want half, I take it?" Jones rolled his eyes but shrugged. Hey, half of that pool would be enough to get his own apartment on one of the upper floors if he played it right. 

"You're damn right I do, it's _my_ relationship they're speculating on."

"Fair enough," Jones muttered, finishing off his sandwich half and taking another as he left. 

Sue him, it was a pretty damn good sandwich.

* * *

About a week later, on the dot, Strife glided into the breakroom, parked himself next to his machine and watched the room over the rim of the black SOLDIER-emblazoned mug. 

A mug, incidentally, that the Silver General had been seen drinking out of on several occassions. 

Speaking of the General, the man waltzed right into the Infantry break room, swept past an astonished group of Master Sargeants and picked up a mug from Strife's ever-growing pile of them. 

Strife didn't even blink as a gloved hand reached past him for the coffee pot and poured a full cup into a bright blue mug with a Chocobo on the side. 

The cream and sugar Jones noted absently, making sure to tuck that knowledge into the same spot that had initially made him offer to help Strife the first time they'd met. 

The kitchen went so quiet that a pin could've dropped and made a sound. 

Generals Hewley and Rhapsodos were next, grabbing the one with the yellow inside that said -I CANNOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT MY FACE DOES WHEN YOU SPEAK.- and the glass mug with the three layers of fuckery (respectively.) Commander Fair grabbed the Moogle Mug and was incredibly familiar as he ruffled Strife's hair out of what appeared to be habit.

"Umm," Pvt. Haise muttered after he'd cleared his throat at least twice, "First Sgt.? Are you feeling okay?"

Poor Private; Jones knew the feeling. 

"They're good." Cloud replied, taking a sip out of the black mug. 

"The rules are for Strifes, significant others and the Silver General... Oh my Odin." Haise blushed bright red and most of the kitchen followed at the realization that all four _were dating Strife_. 

"Lucky bastard," Jones snorted, kicking his feet up on the edge of the shitty couch and thumbing through the morning ShinRa newsletter. 

This was old news as far as he was concerned. 

The curl of Strife's lips behind the rim of his mug said it all, as did the twinkle of amusement in eyes that glowed.

He might get that field promotion yet, considering the glow was visible during the day, Jones thought wryly.

* * *

There was a small present on his desk the day after Mrs. Strife showed up at ShinRa with an ex-Turk in tow. 

Jones was inclined to think that all Strifes were to be treated with respect but considering this was the woman that had raised Strife to be one badass motherfucker? 

He loved her. Platonically, of course. 

To: Sgt. Jones

From: The Strifes 

Jones cautiously cracked open the package, inhaled and then sighed happily. 

_You deserve a cup for all of the nonsense you've helped my son through. Ask Cloud when you run low, dear._

_Claudia Strife_

His first cup of the morning was all the sweeter for the Nibel scent that tickled his nose throughout the day.

He was glad that his instincts had been on point to help Strife on that long ago fall morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, complain, ect.


End file.
